When You're Dead In Hospitals and Freeways
by bleeckerstreet12345
Summary: I don’t know what I expected going over to his crypt. I expected him to be trashed I guess, or sleeping, torturing something maybe, chaining some other girl to his wall. Watching Passions. Giving confession for christsake, anything but crying. Happy cryin
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: i own nothing. really. it's pathetic. **

**This, dear readers, is the product of getting the flu and being trapped in your apartment with your roomates copy of seasons five and six of buffy the vampire slayer. enjoy. **

I don't know what I expected going over to his crypt. I expected him to be trashed I guess, or sleeping, torturing something maybe, chaining some other girl to his wall. Watching Passions. Giving confession for christsake, anything but crying.

Happy crying. Winning the lottery crying.

Being dead seems to have taught me some manners and I guess I should be grateful for small favors because I knocked on his door instead of just kicking it in, giving him a chance at a feeble attempt to compose himself. Giving me a chance to come up with a feeble excuse for being here.

Most of last night is fuzzy. Bikers, fire, a dim flash of Willow and Xander, Dawn, blue eyes, cool hands, hoarse yelling outside.

It's hard for me to finish thoughts. I tend to just kind of drift off in the middle. And he's not helping, opening the door all bright blue eyes and tousled hair and tear-stained cheeks. That huge landside grin that covers his face when he sees it's me.

No seriously. What the hell. Evil dead. Not supposed to be attractive.

I smile back.

"Wanted to thank you for what you did, with Dawn and, you know, the whole helping prevent the apocalypse," I am mumbling. He doesn't stop grinning and I shift my weight uneasily.

This is the part I don't get. Dead body, heart doesn't beat, blood barely circulates, does not require air, very little maintenance. So how exactly do the undead manage to have pheremones? And if they don't why can't I look at Spike with some sort of artistic detachment?

I should ask Willow. No. I'd have to explain the sudden interest. Crap.

"I promised," he says, shrugging and stepping out of his crypt, leaning against the wall, "I'm relatively trustworthy for someone who's spent the last century and half terrorizing the world."

"So says he who has many a time promised to 'drain me dry'" I say skeptically leaning next to him. Spike looks momentarily nauseous, covers it quickly, lights a cigarette.

"Yah well, for all you know I was referring to draining you of that endless supply of bloody cherry Kool Aid the Bit insists on keeping in your pantry. Wouldn't be my finest hour but I could still follow through if pressed." I frown.

"I thought I got rid of that Kool Aid." I say. He nods.

"She replaced it. In case of nuclear war," he says, rolling his eyes, "apparently it's the apocalypses you can't stop that worry her." He glances at me quickly, "How're you feeling?" I sigh.

"Alright, considering I've been decomposing for three months," I say. Spike gets this look on his face and suddenly I remember my argument for not coming over here.

I remember my argument and apparently it wasn't good enough because—

Okay look. I swear I don't know how it happened. Really. I didn't even _think_ about moving but the next think I know I'm standing in front of him and my hand is at his face, tumb gently tracing one cheeckbone, fingers curled against the edge of his mouth and he's staring at me with those eyes.

"Is it possible that you've gotten more emaciated?" I ask.

"Didn't eat much while you were dead," he mumbles, not looking away. My hand drips from his face and his expression falls quickly to kicked puppy and my fingers brushed against his—

Dammit Buffy. Stop.

"Don't read too much into it," he says, "I say that to all the girls." I laugh

"Yah, very charming."

I can't remember when this became acceptable. Me, seeking him out to talk to him. Did I do this before I died? I don't think so. Maybe my memory's impaired, maybe I'm different. Maybe he's different.

Scratch that. He is. No maybe.

See that's the weird part, the really weird part about coming back from the dead. I came back with this whole other set of memories. No, not memories exactly. Sounds. Voices. Muffled, but still intelligible.

What I'm trying to say is that I heard my funeral. I heard Willow and Sander's visits, I heard Giles telling my grace he was leaving for England, heard him start to cry, heard Dawn telling me how school was, how Sunnydale was, how Spike spilled pigs blood on her eggs that morning but don't worry Buffy he felt bad he took her out to breakfast instead. Heard Dawn pleading with me to please, please, please come back.

And I heard Spike. Christ, did I hear Spike. Drunk, sober, voice nasal due to a broken nose. Everything. He spoke with careful detachment, cried, yelled.

"You're murdering me, Buffy," I heard him whimper once, "Are you happy you crazy bitch? Don't you get it? The world was supposed to end or I was supposed to die. Not you. Never you. It wasn't supposed to keep going without you."

Don't get me wrong, it wasn't like I was stuck down there. I remember heaven, though every survival instinct I have is telling me I shouldn't, it's just once I woke up...

I don't know. I don't get it either. But now I'm stuck with these voices and the loudest ones are his.

"I thought you were a ghost you know," he says, "last night. Inbetween thinking your were the Bot and hearing your heartbeat all I could think was that this was an infinitely better way to be haunted."

"Sorry to disappoint," I say and he snorts.

"Right. Gonna cry myself to sleep over that one."

"I might," I say and he looks at me sharply.

"What'd you mean?"

"I mean I thought I was a ghost too." I say, glancing at him. "Even digging my way out of my coffin didn't feel real. All the panic and terror and desperation. I don't know. It felt like— do you ever have those dreams where you're falling?" Spike nods. "Yah. And then when your eyes open for about a second you still feel like you're falling. It was like that, the split second after the nightmare's over but you're not really awake."

"Still a ghost?" he asks. I snort.

"Funny actually. You of all people snapped me out of it." he looks confused. I nod. "Yah, I know, weird. But as soon as I saw you on the stairs it was like, Spike should wear his hair curly more often, and then I could think again and everything just kind of came slamming back down." I sigh, "that's the problem, Spike. Reality doesn't nock, it kicks doors in and it's not that I wanted everyone to spend the rest of their lives in mourning I just didn't expect to, you know, be back to watch them. But I am and they didn't and I'm glad they didn't I'm not _completely_ self-centered but the world kept going and I didn't and now I don't know if I can—" I don't realize I'm crying until he's picking my up and cradling me, cool lips pressing against my forhead. He is mumbling something that might be a prayer and might be a string of obscenities but I have a feeling the two are one and the same for him.

I could lie I guess. Been to heaven, am now back to save the world annually, I could probably get past St. Peter with a couple of tall tales. Blame it on reincarnation stress, desperate need for comfort, whatever. But I won't.

When I look up I'm not thinking in fragments or moving before I realize I've moved.

When I kiss him I know _exactly_ what I'm doing.


	2. Chapter 2

"What?" he says when he notices me watching him from the porch.

"What, what?"

"What're you doing staring at me like that with your bloody martyred crusader face on?"

"I don't have a martyred crusader face," I say, dropping my hands from my hips and crossing them over my chest defensively.

"Do too."

"Do not."

"Do too."

"Do no-" I narrow my eyes at him, biting my tongue between my teeth. Come on Buffy. New approach, remember? Arguments that revolve around do too/do not only end in him stalking toward you and you pretending that grabbing the lapels of his coat and pulling him even further into your personal space is vitality important to proving your point.

"I was not staring at you with my alleged martyred crusader face." I say calmly, "I was trying to decide whether you lurk or skulk." He smiles for a second and I try to remember why the whole personal space thing was something I wanted to keep to myself."Neither, pet. I prowl."

"Prowling would entail some sort of movement."

"I move." He says, sounding offended. I roll my eyes.

"From one side of my yard to the other?" I ask skeptically. He doesn't respond, just growls and kicks at a cigarette butt so I take advantage of his momentary distraction to edge quietly over to my mom's old car.

"Where're you going?" he asks, standing suddenly all too close to me.

Crap. Stupid vampire peripheral vision.

"Grocery shopping."

"Can I come?"  
"No."

"Why not?"

"Why would you _want_ to?" I ask. I'm not even giving him shit for once. I hate the grocery store, childhood lost in the supermarket-type trauma and I can't understand why anyone would go voluntarily.

"Oh, no particular reason," he says, sounding amused, "Because we both know you hold no interest to me." He's grinning at me, blue eyes like search lights and I can feel my lips thinning, the line of my mouth tightening, one fist clenching. It's an automatic response, one that I almost regret because on some level I know that was kind of sweet.

"Back off, Spike." I say, voice harsh. The grin falls from his face but he stays put as he watches me fumble with the car keys.

I don't know why I'm doing this. I shouldn't be doing this. I'm the slayer, you know. Vampires are my specialty. I should be able to just turn around right now and say—

Pale hands, grabbing my keys and my arm, surprisingly gentle.

"You kissed me first, love," he says, voice quiet.

"A week ago. Maybe I've gotten over it."

"You kissed me first," he repeats.

"You have the logic of a seven year old," I say, staring at his feet.

"Probably," he admits, "But it still stands."

"I can't do this," I mutter as I make a grab for my keys. He holds them just out of my reach, leaning in slightly.

"Do what exactly?" he asks with a leer.

Do this, Spike. Be this close to you and not touch you. Talk to you and feel obligated to bite back the laugh when you say something funny. Hit you when I want to kiss you. Move to wipe the blood away and then have to pretend I was going in for another punch. I. can't. do. this.

I don't say that though. I just glare at him. He sighs heavily and I blink as his face takes on a carefully blank expression.

"Look, Slayer," he says, staring off to the side somewhere, "I'll make this easy on you." And now he looks at me, eyes studying me in what I don't want to admit is desperation. "Just tell me that was a fluke," he says, so softly I almost don't hear him, "just tell me that was gratitude for taking care of Dawn over the summer. Tell me you were just looking for comfort. Anything. Because if you don't kill the hope now you may never get rid of me."

This my chance. I should sigh and look repentant and say, "God, Spike, I'm so sorry, I really didn't mean to take advantage of your feelings, bladdy fucking blah." I should. I should lie through my teeth and get away from him while I still can and do whatever I have to in order to forget him. He's making this easy on me. This is my way out. I'd be an idiot not to take it.

But as I've mentioned, I'm the slayer. I hit things. The thinking thing isn't really my strong suit.

He's staring at me, waiting for me to answer and he doesn't move when my hand closes over the hand he's holding my keys in.

"I need my keys, Spike," I whisper. It wasn't supposed to come out a whisper. It was supposed to come out all strong and assertive, not floaty and come-hither. He notices, obviously. He shakes his head.

"I'm in love with you," he says softly, "At least give me an answer."

"I can't," I say and he growls, rolling his eyes.

"That's crap, Slayer and you know it," he says, "Just give me a answer for christsake Buffy. You know if you ever took just a bloody second too—"

"I can't tell you it was just a fluke," I say, cutting him off and beginning to pace in front of him. "I can't tell you it was just a fluke because I'm a crappy liar. I can't tell you it's just a fluke but I can't admit it wasn't because I can't give you what you want! I can't do it! I don't understand how this happened, or if it's been there for awhile and I'm worried because if it has then I really have no idea what's going on in my subconscious and ever since I've come back from the dead all this stuff that I've apparently been repressing has risen to the surface, about everyone, not just you, but for fuck's sake Spike, they never told me to expect love!" I turn to look at him and the look on his face, like he's been hit by a Mac truck, makes me realize what I just said. I decide to screw the car keys and take advantage of his shock to break into a dead sprint down the street away from him but I can still see him, flashes in the mirrors of the cars parked along the street, his face breaking into a slow grin before he starts after me.


End file.
